Thirty-Something Seconds
by TheSongbird341
Summary: She would be alive if I'd been there thirty-something seconds sooner. (Dark; character death, if you couldn't tell.)


**Thirty-Something Seconds**

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_She would be alive if I'd been there thirty-something seconds sooner._

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He couldn't stop replaying it in his mind, over and over.

Losing her. Hearing her. Finding her. Losing her again. His mind defaulted to the gruesome pictures, and the burning emotions, and the grief at bay. His body ached for the memory to be just a memory, when, deep inside, he knew he'd seen it too closely, too clearly, to believe it was anything but harsh, unfavorable reality. Still, he rolled it around in his head continuously, sounds and sights and all. It was as if he was _trying _to drive himself insane with it. Maybe he was. Maybe he needed to go insane. How else could he cope with the voice in the back of his head, whispering the same ugly truth in his ear every time he closed his eyes, in an impish little voice with its taunting tone and biting sincerity? The words echoed in his head monotonously, too unavoidably loud and close and sharp and personal.

_Thirty-something seconds. That's it. That's all._

It was impossible to ignore. Everything he saw, heard, read, said, trailed back to that same memory. It was his thought every second of every day, even as he slept, even as he showered, even as he sat at home on his first vacation in ten years.

_Thirty-something seconds__._

_I should have taken those stairs a few seconds faster._

_I could have run the other side of the building and saved some time__._

_Karen would be alive if I'd been there thirty-something seconds sooner._

That was the official verdict, anyway. He'd counted thirty-something seconds between her official death and the arrival of ambulances previously called for the other victims of the mass shooting. If he'd been there a little sooner, or held onto her a little longer, she might have lived to never tell about it. But he hadn't. So she didn't.

That was the thought that destroyed him inwardly every waking day and every sleepless night. Half of a minute had separated life and death for the Chief, and when push came to kill, he wasn't there for her. He should've been there, taking that bullet or shooting one of his own. There was no reason her life should have been compromised – she was there to investigate the shooting during the _aftermath_, and suddenly went off on a hunch that the killer remained in the vast building. He guessed she had run into him, and, in some strange turn of events, found herself staring down a barrel before she met its lead. He didn't know what she'd been thinking...

Carlton grieved for her more than anyone else, likely. Although the entire department felt great sorrow at the loss, they could tell it had taken a special toll on him. While O'hara, the only person to set forth a form of comfort for her partner, was already helping to plan the funeral; while Woody the Coroner had hung his head and quietly requested exclusion from her autopsy; while even _Buzz_ cast broken glances at her empty office whenever he had a question he couldn't ask her or an extra cup of coffee with no recipient; while Spencer and Guster didn't show up for days, likely for the same reason Lassiter took his own vacation; while they all felt the same hurt, his was deeper, sharper. He'd _been _there; he'd heard her last words, and now felt them vibrate in his head every time he breathed... _"It's okay. Tell them it's okay."_

_But it isn't okay, _he wanted to say, although he didn't. _It can't be okay._

By "them," she likely meant her family. If there was someone who longed for her as he did, it was her husband. He, in his own anguish, had taken what little blame Lassiter hadn't already drowned himself in and poured it over the poor man's head mercilessly. He hadn't needed someone else to tell him how guilty to feel, however, as he already had that covered. Every time someone mentioned her little girl, Iris, he felt it gnaw at him inside. To know that he'd taken her _mother_... Could he explain that away, even to himself? Could he make them or anyone else believe that it was _okay_?

They wanted him to speak at the funeral, as the last person to have seen her alive. He wasn't sure he could do it, with the essence of Karen surrounding him in every picture, every mention, every memory. He could picture it now: tears threatening his burning eyes, stepping up in front of her friends and family as they muttered amongst themselves: _"He's the reason. Don't you see the guilt in his eyes? He's the reason she's dead." _ He'd feel awkward and empty and alone, with only the memories to remind him of why he was there. Would she have wanted that?

That was his only thought process lately. During the debriefing, when he informed the department of the separation, and the gunshots... finding her thirty-something seconds too late to have saved her, but just soon enough to hear her speak one last time... as he talked, he took care to omit anything she would have wanted to remain private. He hadn't mentioned her fearful eyes or shaking hands or tears, to survive her fearless legacy she'd carried out with her breathless declaration: _"I'm not afraid. I don't even feel it." _No one needed to know anything but that.

But he did know, and that was why the intense guilt only haunted him. He saw her at her most vulnerable – on the verge of death. He'd held her hand one more time, and heard her voice, her last wish; made not for her own needs, but for that of her family. He'd been there for her, and that should have brought him peace, but instead, it ate him alive. He was there for her, yes, but thirty-something seconds too late. That was his knowledge to live with and to die with, forever. He hadn't been quick enough to save her.

It wasn't fair. How could he have known the difference of time, the space in between, that cost her forever? Who could have told that half of a minute would force her to say her farewell to the world so prematurely? Who would have imagined that a few wasted moments on a set of stairs, a couple of lost seconds in turning hallways, would mark the end of an existence that mattered to _everyone_? He didn't think anyone was able to predetermine that – not even that boneheaded "psychic" that had predicted her endangerment just a little too late.

Then why him? Why was he the one to hold her candle, to hide her dying secrets, to send her off and upward? Why did he have to live with such a terrible burden, and a scarring memory, and a helpless regret?

He thought he'd never know, but the answer was the one thing he continuously denied himself: he was the only person she wanted by her side, in that last moment of grasped hope and failed heart. He would never truly believe that, mostly because it opened up a deeper question that, even in the grief of her loss, he could not face. He couldn't possibly consider that he was more to her than a good detective. If he dared to ask that question, he'd have to live with it forever, as she couldn't answer it, now.

He didn't realize that this was exactly what she'd meant in her last three words. He'd thought her delirious, or simply courteous, even in her final seconds, but the meaning behind them was deeper than he'd decided. It was a finalization, a summary, of everything he thought was a mystery; of where he stood with her and what good he'd done just by being there for her, whether it be thirty-something seconds late or right on time.

"_Thank you, Carlton."_

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**_AUGH! I wrote all sad again, but I HAD TO! It was all I could do during my Writer's Block, but it's better than nothing, right? ... Right._**

**_Thanks for reading! I just love writing Carlton, and the idea of his being there with her was too good to pass up. Hints of Lassivick, but mostly platonic in this one. If you liked, if you disliked, if you have an idea, or if you just like to talk, leave me a review! It's much appreciated :)_**

**_* *-TheSongbird341-* *_**

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_DISCLAIMER__: I own Lassiter and Vick. PSYCH! ... LOL, oh gee, I crack myself up..._


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